


one-syllable-word

by tisapear



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Crowley Being an Asshole (Supernatural), Episode: s05e21 Two Minutes to Midnight, Established Relationship, M/M, POV Bobby Singer, POV Outsider, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:35:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24093688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tisapear/pseuds/tisapear
Summary: Making love, desperate rutting. A lover's embrace or an animal's need—what's the difference anyway?(His boys are suffering, so Bobby might as well be, too.)
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Kudos: 93





	one-syllable-word

Moans and groans and he wishes they were coming from his bones and not the living room, two boys so lost in each other it's a wonder they don't share one body, one soul. Consuming the other bit by bit and everything else is just white noise.

One so ready to die and the other about to. 

He wants to close his eyes to the truth he's tried denying for so long, but his boys are suffering, so he might as well be, too. 

Tilts his head over to the angel staring at the boys like a newborn pupper, wide-eyed, world-curious, eager to learn. 

"Fornication," Castiel murmurs, buttery soft. Like he's never seen it before. Probably hasn't, 'sides for that one time Bobby literally walked in on him watching porn.

He rolls his tongue in his mouth. Teeth mightn't be sharp enough to hurt, but the truths that've been numbing his taste buds for the better part of two decades are subtle pinpricks aimed at his gums.

"Sex," he corrects, face rearranging itself into a hopeless grimace at the so hesitantly admitted truth. Catches Castiel's undivided attention with a single-word-statement. He licks the whiskey shine from his lips, welcomes the bitterness at the back of his throat. 

"Procreation, reproduction, _breeding._ That's what god intended it for, yeah?" Asks the question with no actual want for an answer, lets the _god oh god oh god Dean Dean **Dean**_ wash over him like acidic downpour drip-dropping all over his skin. Doesn't close his eyes or he'd see the same damn lips now pushing those words out so desperately curled into a smile, all of six years old and still bare of any lingering darkness, yet already so utterly in love with his big brother. 

Some things are inevitable. (Only a matter of time.) 

Tragedy finds everyone. (For some it's a constant companion.) 

"All that angel mojo and y'still haven't figured it out, huh?" Overgrown bird looks constipated at that. Maybe affronted, maybe thoughtful. Seems to be waiting for him to elaborate. Bobby doesn't care either way, but he needs to keep talking. Keep rationalizing. 

(Like there's ever been anything rational when it comes to—) 

"Love." Voice reverent. Bittersweet. Hurts so good like the sweetest taste of Jack you'll ever have. Just the one, though. Just the one. Oh, you'll get to know that little tidbit beforehand, of course, but it won't stop you. You'll proceed and leave caution to the wind, cry when the bottle's inevitably taken from you. Already empty, but you still see it full. 

Addiction is a slippery slope, roads littered with blisters 'bout to pop. Waiting for you to take the wrong step so they can unleash the pain.

"And at its ugliest, too. They wanna—feel each other. _Keep_ feeling each other." Bobby follows Castiel's interested gaze, those unblinking blues.

Clothes only halfway off, the barest necessities to—

Well. 

Well. 

Belt buckles clawed open by desperate nails and jeans ripped down around the knees. Shirts bunched up. Hands on every available inch of skin and stuck under clothes and palming through hair and _pulling_ and _bruising_ and _talking_ — _I'm here I'm here not yet gone just trust me please oh god oh **please.**_

He takes another mouthful of whiskey and lets the burn linger. "They. Dean. _They_ , they want 'em to... stick around. Think if the bruises last, maybe... well. Y'know." One look and no, millennial old toddler doesn't. "Then Dean can convince himself that Sam was, that he was _there_. That he was, uh. Real, I guess." Halts, then adds, almost with no sound, "Bruises littering his skin, like he's keeping a part of Sam with him, like Sam's leaving one behind." Like the kid hasn't already put the most important one into Dean's hands ages ago, all shatter-me parts of a glued-together heart.

Guttural groans and skin-on-skin slapping and his first thought is _carpet burn_ , soon followed by _if I had neighbours, I'd feel sorry for them._

Watches the sunset dance over their sweat-glistening skin, the exposed parts, the snapping hips and shivering sides, the smalls of their backs where hands are grasping for hold (never want to let go), the hollows of their throats and necks where bruises are being scattered like the reds and blues and purples will protect them from dawn.

Sam's hands roaming over Dean's back under three layers of fabric and he must be leaving lady-friend claw marks all over the taunt skin. 

(Even those will eventually fade, and Bobby can already see it: Dean twisted 'round himself, trying to stare at his back in the mirror, misty eyes and please-no shivers when there's nothing there, left all bare. The body may heal but the soul will never recover.)

His glass almost empty, bitter-spit stained. Clutches at it like it's a lifeline because that's what it is, what it's been for decades. 

Knows what it's like having no control over his legs. (Useless.) Gave away his soul on loan. (Goddamn stupid.) Wonders how it feels to lose half of himself. (Never wants to know.) 

But he _will_ , won't he? Will know, will see, will stare at the hollow shell left behind and keep pulling guns outta hands far too steady for the mind lost that day.

Says _lost_ when it'll really be _left behind_ , Maybe _taken with_ , once Sam's taken that swan dive all on his own, kid far too young to comprehend what laying down your life for the greater good even _means._

(Experienced in the horrors of the world, maybe, but still so _young_ , stuck in this homemade illusion filled to the brim with soap-bubble-hopes and apple-pie-dreams. So easy to pop, to swallow whole. A chest blooming with a one of a kind earnestness. 'Bout to be lost to the world in a matter of hours.)

All the boy ever wanted was a normal life.

Instead his only option left is pushing that dream deferred onto a big brother who never wanted anything but the boy.

"You can't." Dean's hoarse plea, a last-ditch effort they all know is in vain, followed by, "I gotta, _I gotta_ ," begging for forgiveness and understanding and surrender all at once when Sam himself sounds so uncertain. Little kid asking for big brother's support because he won't be able to go through with it otherwise.

A growl that goes through Bobby's bones, so obviously Alpha-Male-Winchester. Then a thump.

Lifts his gaze from the empty glass and chances another glance.

Dean's got them flipped around now, six foot four Sammy all swallowed up by big brother's shadowed form, chest to chest and legs intertwined and hands painting bruises where he's pressing down on Sam's arms. Sam's head lolled back and mouth opened around a moan because Dean's fucking into him like it's his personal prayer.

Making love, desperate rutting. A lover's embrace or an animal's need—what's the difference anyway?

Tip-tap behind his back. Leather shoes, Italian-crafted. Castiel doesn't seem disturbed, but Bobby knows he's got that fancy blade ready, hidden just inside his sleeve. Nice ace to have up there (should use it just in case, just _because_ ).

"Soulmates," Crowley drawls from behind them, like there haven't already been enough foreboding omens. Hand wrapped around a glass of Bobby's finest whiskey, even if he isn't able to endure a single sip. Keeps up appareances. Lies in the face of god, honey-dipped and syrup-slick, but spits the next words out with a certain ring of truth only men who've stared death down and lost are able to. "What a pain. All the hurt, all the emotions. It's so much _easier_ when all you have to worry about is yourself." Amber liquid sloshing around in the glass, lazily, so close to the rim and to dripping over sin-sullen fingers. Smudged traces on the outside, burden-of-eternity large. "You humans, you call it beautiful. _Love._ " Curls his lips like it's stab-ready sharp diamond pieces caressing his tongue instead of a four-letter-word. The noise released is condescending.

A two-boy-world shattering in front of their eyes and the bastard's wearing the holier-than-thou attitude like a second skin. _They killed my tailor_ , but no matter how beautiful they might be, some things can't be hidden under finely crafted garments.

Bobby wants to break his nose.

"We call it _ugly._ The pretty lies, the ugly truth." Hums the pop culture reference like it's sweet nectar coating the insides of his mouth. His smile might've been called nice, if it wasn't so outright malicious. "Sure is useful, though."

Bobby flexes his fingers. Aching knuckles and the demon sends him a disapproving look, _tut tut tut_ goes the disappointed mother. Crowley's fingers circle his nose, tenderly. _Crunch_ , one swift motion and Crowley releases a soft sigh, nose already set again. Even that sounds insincere.

(How willing to give up on yourself do you have to be to get lost in your own charades.) 

Bobby's under no illusion: hit only landed 'cause the demon wanted it to. Felt damn good, though. (Released none of the desperation clawing at the insides of his ribs, like they're bars keeping it caged. Too scared to contemplate how long they'll hold, so he doesn't.)

Twin hisses from the room of the dead. Almost too quiet, must've been muffled into heated up flesh, don't-leave-me sweat stuck to their teeth and the tears kept inside desiccating them from the inside out. Climax of the story and Bobby presses his eyes closed, can't bear to look at Crowley's cruel smile because he's enjoying this, isn't he. Just two stupid humans and the end of the world. Regular Tuesday evening.

(Just an old coot who'd sell his soul over and over again just so his boys don't have to live in a world without each other.)

He knows whatever's coming next, whatever Dean's gonna do, you won't be able to call it living. Hollow meat suit, dead inside. Soulmates, Crowley said, mockingly yet so much the truth. One cannot live without the other and that's straight up fact, that much Bobby's sure of.

"Love," Castiel murmurs, filled with wonder. The syllable foreign on his tongue, but by the looks of it, he's starting to enjoy the sensation, letters climbing up the roof of his mouth.

So sweet, so bitter, so easy to explore.

So easy to drown in.

**Author's Note:**

> "You know, you could make damn fine money off of this. Gay porn is getting more popular these days. So is incest, actually. Two brothers fucking is basically the epitome of—"
> 
> Damn demon ducks the slosh of holy water directed his way like it's what he anticipated. Knowing him, it probably was, said all of this purposefully just to get a rise out of Bobby. 
> 
> "Like the pizza man?" Cas pipes up, and the ridiculous thing is: he looks almost _giddy_ to be able to contribute to the conversation. 
> 
> Fuck the pizza man, is what Bobby thinks. And instantly regrets that thought since it only makes him all-too aware of what's going on right on his living room floor. 
> 
> No damn dry-cleaning is ever gonna make him willingly touch that carpet again. (He's probably gonna end up burning it in the back of the yard.)


End file.
